The Paperback Show Murders (9 page)

“I DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU'VE SAID”

Sunday, March 27

“‘We want you to kill a geek,' he said.

“Wednesday adjusted her shoulder straps, applied more lipstick, checked the image in her mirror and the messages on her bleep, and said: ‘Which Greek? I mean, jeez, I know a fat Greek named Nick. In fact, they're all named Nick!'

“‘No, no,
a geek
!' the much older man said. He wore a powdery gray wig that showed his dominating and commanding personality.

“‘That'll cost you more,' she purred, pulling her skirt up even further, ‘much more. Geeks are smart—at least until they meet a real woman. Then their brains turn to refried beans.'

“‘That's because most of them have never met a real woman. We'll pay your price, Wednesday,' the near immortal, handsome, super-intelligent everyman said, ‘but you'll have to pay ours, too.'

“She looked at him more closely. ‘Really!' she said. ‘I don't think you could keep up with me, Job. I mean, I can't wait for on-the-Job training, so to speak.'

“‘I've had more women than you,' he said, ‘and more geeks too. Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.'

“‘And nobody much cares, either. I don't believe everything you've said, but still, I'll take the assignment. There's just one thing, though.'

“‘What's that, Wednesday?'

“‘Well, actually,' she said, puffing up her lips, ‘it's
not
Wednesday, it's Thursday, and you're my assignment today.' She spit the poison dart right between his eyes. He fell over head-first into his soufflé.

“‘Job one always comes first,' she said to herself, smiling. ‘Mission accomplished!' she bleeped into the button fastening the top of her blouse. She left the tab on the target's bald spot, now made visible by his side-sliding wig.”

—Wednesday
,

by RonBob A. Haldane (1968)

“Let me begin,” Pfisch said, “by saying that I don't believe everything you've said, Ms. Foyle. There may be elements of truth rattling around in there, but having observed Mr. Dameen first-hand, I don't think he could plan his way out of a paper bag. And while he might kill someone in a burst of anger, he'd be more likely to vomit all over them.

“It's certainly possibly that his own death was just an accident; in fact, we've found nothing that would indicate to the contrary. I just find it suspicious that someone so intimately involved in all these proceedings would himself buy the farm right in the middle of things.

“And someone clearly murdered Mr. van Noland. Curiously, even though the event seemed to take place right out in the open, so to speak, no one saw anything.

“Now, you say that Ms. Boaz was killed because she wanted her books back.”

“Yes, that's what Brody told me: she specifically wanted that particular novel,
Castle Dred
, that evening, because she had someone on the hook,” Gully said. “She was meeting someone later that night, and he had the impression that she expected to get a good price.”

“But she didn't, did she?” Pfisch said.

“No, Brody had already arranged to sell it to Freddie.”

“So, what did he tell Ms. Boaz?”

“Well, I don't know exactly. He told me afterward that when he said he didn't have it close by, she blew up at him, and threatened to call in the law.”

“You said originally that she was going to sue him.”

“Well, maybe that too. He just indicated that she was really mad, and started making threats at him.”

“So, then he killed her,” the Lieutenant said.

“That's what he said.”

“How, specifically?”

“Well, didn't he strangle her? That's what I've been hearing,” she said.

“Hearing from who?” he asked.

“Well, you know, from everyone.”

“Not from Brody?”

“Well, from him too, of course.”

“What specifically did he say?” the policeman wanted to know.

“Something like, ‘She's dead! I didn't mean anything. She's just…she's dead!' Then he grabbed a bottle and started chugging it.”

“He didn't provide you with any details?”

“Not that I remember.”

“So, why do you think that Mr. Dameen's the murderer?”

“Who else could it be? He had the book!”

“Did you ever examine that novel yourself?” Pfisch asked.

“I just glanced at it. It had some silly inscription on the title page. Didn't pay much attention, really. Never saw what the fuss was all about.”

“You said the inscription was on the title page?”

“Yes.”

“But Ms. Brittleback here—and several others, I might add—heard Ms. Boaz recite the inscription out loud, and they stated that it was clearly on the half-title page, or page one of the paperback.”

“They did?”

“Yes, they did.”

“Well, maybe it was, then.”

“You don't seem to know very much about these events, for all that you've named your late boyfriend the killer.”

“Well, I know what I know, Lieutenant, and I'm convinced, sorry to say, that Brody Dameen killed Lissa Boaz.”

“What about Mr. van Noland?”

“What about him?”

“According to your testimony, he got the book or books from Mr. Dameen.”

“Yes.”

“When we went through the stock laid out on his table, and also examined the contents of his room, we found the Tarzan novel clutched in his hand—and no trace of
The Secret of Castle Dred
.”

“Like I said, I don't know anything about his death.”

“Do you have the book?” the policeman asked.

“No, of course not. What would I want with something like that?”

“I don't know. I don't know what anyone would want with it, unless that person was the killer.”

I interrupted at this point: “Lieutenant,” I said, “Mr. van Noland was not well liked in the business. He made many enemies, both among the collectors and among his fellow dealers. Maybe he tried to drive too hard a bargain for what was certainly a rarity: the only known signed copy of the first original gothic novel published in the paperback field. Anybody could have killed him.”

“Yes, but that ‘anybody' had to have a good enough reason.”

“To own one of a kind?—that's reason enough for certain fans. You don't know how rabid some of these folks can be.”

And we went on and on from there, with Pfisch questioning Margie at length, and then Gully again—and even me—but in the end he finally decided to leave things as they were.

“Very well,” he said. “We'll take you at your word, Ms. Foyle, and identify Mr. Dameen as Ms. Boaz's killer. Mr. Dameen's demise will be listed as an accidental death. And we'll continue looking for Mr. van Noland's murderer.”

Of course, they never found him, and the case remains open to this day. The fiftieth Paperback Exposition and Show ground down to an ignominious end; our coordinator, Tomás Law, vowed never to return to Santo Verdugo again.

Margie and I packed away our remaining offerings, after making a couple of under-the-counter deals with our fellow bookmongers, and loaded everything back in the van. Then we went out to dinner.

“A CHORUS OF OLÉS”

Sunday, March 27

“I spat into the face of Vimius Nuyance, Percolator of Gore. ‘I'll drink iced tea before surrendering my manhood to your tutelage,' I said.

“Then I hopped onto the saddle of my chickie-poo, dug my spurs into its succulent thighs, and gripped the stirrup as the giant bird leapt into the sky.

“‘Get him!' shouted the ruler, and the great pigeonators of Gore mounted their sky-steeds, beating into the airwaves after me, and chirping their chorus of ‘olés'!

“‘What'th it going to be then, eh, Mathter?' my luscious leaper lisped, beating her wings against the oncoming wind.

“‘Fly away! Fly away,' I yelled over the swishing of the air apparent. Discretion is always the better part of valor.

“But there were just too many of them, and my chances of reaching Ailandia seemed slender to slim.

“‘Release the secret weapon!' I ordered my chickie-poo, and a noxious mix of bug juice and splatter-yuck spewed out of the bird's nether end towards the oncoming flock of sky-rats.

“One by one they went ‘Ewww,' and dropped out of the race, until only Vimius himself remained. I banked into a nose-dive, and went right at the climbing clodhopper, drawing my snicker-snack from its purse. The Percolator tried to react—but too late! Blood spurted all over chickie-poo and my brand new uniform, which had been carefully knitted for me by my house-frau, Wanessa. I'd have much to explain whenever I returned to home-base.

“But return I eventually did, after just three more years of wandering through the back plains of Gore—having a great time, carousing whenever I felt like it, getting plastered on fermented chickie-juice, and hanging out generally with the laddies.

“The truth is, I didn't really like the company of girls all that much. Too many tea-parties and such, too much of ‘Do this' and ‘Do that.' Give me the free life anytime!

“‘Yeth, Mathter,' my chickie-poo agreed.”

—Buckets of Gore
, by John Lang IV

I picked a dive called Uncle Timo's, a Mexican eatery located about a mile from the motel, and I ordered their
molcajete
, a stone pot filled with strips of nopales (cactus leaves), beef, bacon, chicken, shrimp, chorizo, onions, and much else; while Margie just worried a taco salad.

I found a private booth off in one corner, underneath the TV, set to a loud Spanish-language channel, which I thought would drown out any of our conversation.

“So, what did you think of Lieutenant Pfisch's conclusions?” I asked, trying to munch down a boiling-hot strip of nopal.

“I think it's probably the best solution we're going to get,” she finally said. She had her eyes firmly planted in the center of her guacamole.

“Yeah, too bad it's completely wrong,” I said.

“What!?” She choked on a piece of onion, and drank down half of her iced tea before resurfacing.

“I said: he got it all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, Brody didn't kill Lissa Boaz. He was there during the evening, to be sure, but in his state of physical and mental deterioration, he couldn't have hurt anyone, save by accident.”

“Uh, well, then, uh, who did?” she asked.

“Either Gully or you,” I said. “Gully's got the stronger physique, so I suspect it was her. But you could have done it as well: you were there, after all, and if she did it, I suspect you cleaned up the scene afterwards.”

“But…but…why would I do such a thing?”

“Because
you
wrote that godawful novel, and there was something—perhaps several somethings—that you didn't want connected to you, or to the person to whom the book was inscribed,” I said.

“But you heard Lissa read the inscription out loud,” she said.

“I heard what she said—directly to you, by the way—but that wasn't the
real
inscription—which was, in fact, on the title page, as you well knew, having penned it yourself. No, the real inscription was written to your daughter, Gully, when she was an infant, so she'd know who her mother—and by inference, her father—was. Unfortunately, that father was also
your
father, and that was the secret that you couldn't let become public knowledge.”

“But what about Brody?”

“
You
killed him, because he knew too much, and he was a danger to Gully. He'd gotten in over his head with his drinking and gambling and ill-temper, and you were afraid that in the end, he would harm her, physically or mentally. So, you arranged something on the stairwell. I don't know what it was, and the police didn't find it in any case—and Gully had no suspicions, so you were safe there. Does she know that you're her mother, by the way?”

I heard Margie sob just once, under her breath, just a little catch in her chest, and then she straightened herself up and looked me in the eye. “Yes, she knows—but not for long. I told her last year. We're working things out as we go.”

“Well, you're both free and clear, and I'll try to make sure it stays that way.”

“What about Freddie the Cur? I didn't have anything to do with that, and I was afraid….”

“No, Gully didn't kill him, although he certainly had it coming. But, he would have used the knowledge that he'd gained from
Castle Dred
either to blackmail one or the both of you—or worse, to do what Lissa intended to do, which was sell it to the highest bidder, and damn the consequences. They were two of a kind.”

“So, who killed him?” she asked.

“Why,
I did
, of course,” I said, “and I don't regret it one whit. You're my partner, after all, and you rescued me from myself many years ago, so I owe you big-time for that—and for many, many subsequent years of friendship and good humor.

“Like I said once, we might as well be an old married couple, because we've sorta evolved that way over the decades. I did what I had to do to protect you—and I'd do it again.

“You suffered through terrible circumstances as a young woman. I can't imagine living through what you faced, and then having to give up your child to adoption on top of that. But, you survived, and she survived, and now you've had to relive it all over again. We'll get through this somehow.”

She shook her head sadly. “I can never look at things the same way again. I killed a man. I had to do it for my daughter's sake, to protect her—and she killed someone too. And so did you. We're a fine bunch, aren't we?”

“Hey, just a typical American family,” I said. “Families who slay together play together!—or some such thing. I certainly regret taking a life,
any
life, but Freddie was a particularly nasty individual, and there was no justice under the law that would have suited the circumstances. Having that information made public would have destroyed two worthy lives.

“In any case, what's done is done. The police seem satisfied with the answers they've got, and I suspect that Freddie's killer will never be caught. But if he is, he's lived a good long life, and he'll leave it with no regrets.”

She nodded her head slightly. “Very well. We won't talk about this ever again, right?”

“Right,” I agreed.

“By the way, what happened to the book?”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out
The Secret of Castle Dred
. “A small gift from someone who cares. If it were mine, I'd burn the damned thing. It wasn't your best work anyway, believe me!”

“We all have to start somewhere,” she said, taking it from my hands, and putting it away in her purse.

And then, amidst the chorus of olés sprinkling down from the tube above us, we went back to munching on our munchies, which was, after all, the best thing we'd done all day.